


when these words are the only things we share

by eternal_elenea



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 14:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternal_elenea/pseuds/eternal_elenea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andy has been by his side since they were kids, drifting away for short periods, but always coming back in the end; they are like two ships drawn together by the surrounding storm, each calling out with beacons to a never-coming port, instead finding each other.</p><p>(These are the choices he makes. These are the choices he would make all over again.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	when these words are the only things we share

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Atlas Hands" by Benjamin Francis Leftwich.
> 
> This was literally just thrown together today because my brain doesn't understand that "essay" doesn't mean "fic" and so came untimely inspiration. I hope you guys enjoy it!

"I dare you not to love me," Andy says, wrapped into his arms at the net and this is the _worst_ timing, the worst moment that Novak could ever think of, can't do anything but stare at Andy in astonishment.

Horror has never felt so much like salvation; this is what is even more surprising.

(He can feel himself gape, probably looks even more ridiculous than he normally does. Andy grins at him like he knows.)

 

 

 

(He's always known.)

 

 

 

Andy's been there for all of Novak's years and this is what people don't realize – you do not grow up with someone as he has with Andy and not forge a connection deeper than you've ever had previously.

Novak's been all around this world in his life: Serbia, Munich, Europe, across oceans and above them. His family has been, always will be, his family, but they know only Novak, the 12-year-old boy, and he's grown far past what he used to be.

Andy has been by his side since they were kids, drifting away for short periods, maybe, but always coming back in the end; they are like two ships drawn together by the surrounding storm, each calling out with beacons to a never-coming port, instead finding each other.

(Despite that, Novak's always chosen his family first: goes to Munich, not Spain, stays in Serbia instead of coming to Great Britain, lives in Monaco, not London, not Miami.)

(These are the choices he makes. These are the choices he would make all over again. They are not blood.)

 

 

 

"You know that I've loved you since we were fifteen," Andy says, casual unless you know how to read between his words. He takes another bite of his sandwich, chews as Novak doesn't respond, says, minutes later in the silence, like nothing's changed, "Bit windy today, isn't it?"

And the thing about Andy is that he's brave, especially when you don't expect him to be; he's moved past the fear of falling because he's fallen so many times. And the thing is that Novak's never seen courage reflected in the eyes of someone not of his country, because you learn courage only from having to.

And Novak didn't know, doesn't know, can't know because he's only ever known himself.

"Was it my irresistible body?" Novak says because he doesn't know when to leave things be.

"Dick," Andy says, trying not to sound fond and failing.

 

 

 

His eyes don't look sad in the following days; his gestures aren't aborted and stiff; his laugh isn't tempered, isn't anything short of what it always is.

It's almost like being in love is easy for him.

Novak watches him and watches him and wants to believe it's true – doesn't.

 

 

 

He's in Serbia and it is still home, for all that it shouldn't be.

"You are getting too skinny," his mother says, in the way that only mothers can, waves a ladle at him, "Here have some more soup. You are just a growing boy after all."

And Novak wants to say that he _isn't_ , that he hasn't been for a very long time now, but is too grateful to her to do anything except for smile. He gets up and refills his bowl and keeps playing the facade of the favored son, destined for greatness.

It is a life that he left behind long ago, a self more like a snake's skin that he's grown many times out of; Novak nods, nods, smiles, helps his grandmother in the market, loves them all the more anyway.

 

 

 

"How was your trip?" Andy asks because they're still friends despite everything, despite fuck-ups and rivalries and Andy's confessions, despite everyone who wishes they weren't, and Novak has answers to everything, except he doesn't have an answer to this: to the simplicity of Andy's question, to the warmth in his expression, to the sweat-matted curls over his forehead. Novak doesn't have an answer to _this_ , even if he were capable of defining what it even is that he's seeing.

Novak has never known anything, only himself, and now he is not sure which self that is – the one he left behind in Serbia, the one in Munich when he was 14, the one holding up the Wimbledon trophy, the one in front of Andy right now. He's not sure which self _he_ is.

(The self that loves Andy or the one that doesn't.

(Love him, love him not; love him, love him not.))

 

 

 

Novak dreams of another final, but he can't be sure which it is, only bright lights, the roar of the crowd, the sound of hitting the ball across the net. Andy.

"Have you chosen yet?" Andy says, a moment later, an hour later, (Novak doesn't know which), palms and chests clasped together across a net and Novak pulls back, stares, still not answering. The dream dissolves around him like the stripes of a watercolor, dissolves around Andy's grin and the warmth of his breath against Novak's collarbone.

Novak wakes, breathing hard, sweaty, stares up into the ceiling.

Novak wakes, still doesn't, won't, can't know.

 

 

 

"What are you thinking so hard about?" Ana asks him over dinner, weeks later, her hands folded, delicate, over her napkin and her plate long finished. The food on his own plate could be described as "picked at" if it weren't Novak's plate. He pushes it away.

"What?" he says, wondering what happened to eloquence.

She smiles, charming and almost sad. "Look," she says, gesturing at his plate, his face, like there's something on it that Novak himself can't see.

"What are you talking about?" he asks again, now bewildered but only half-heartedly. (It's always half-heartedly, these days, even if he won't let himself admit it.)

"You haven't made a decent joke all night," she says, still smiling, and now Novak can see it for the pity that it's always been, "You haven't been yourself since Australia, Nole."

"You haven't won a title since Monte Carlo," she doesn't say, but Novak hears anyway.

He stops, utterly still, and nothing clicks into place. And there are no revelations.

"Fuck," he says, like he would be mad at her, at the universe through her, if it weren't Ana; runs unsteady, frustrated hands across his thighs instead.

 

 

 

Novak's fallen a few times himself and he hasn't learned better. Novak's hit brick walls and unsurmountable obstacles and wide, sky-tall mountains, but he's always gotten past them, one way or another.

Novak knows nothing, except himself.

Repeat it, repeat it, and maybe it will again be true.

 

 

 

After the US Open, Andy is in London. Novak buys the plane ticket without thinking about it, tells his team that he's taking a few days off, gets to the airport wondering what he's doing.

"Rafa, again?" Andy says, like he's amused and unsurprised that Novak's at his door.

"You trade me for him now?" Novak quips, half-meaning it and not knowing why that might be painful. Andy glances at him sidelong.

"Yes." he says, utterly deadpan, but can't help but make a face at the thought, and Novak relaxes more than he thought he needed to.

He opens the door fully, walks to the kitchen without checking to see if Novak's behind him, puts on the kettle for tea even though he hates it and Novak only tolerates it. Novak would say that it's an English thing, if only to get Andy to glare at him and correct him: "Scottish," he would say like Novak didn't know after this long.

Novak would say a million things if all of his words hadn't been jumbled inside of his own mouth for the last nine months, trying and failing to reach something bigger than the sum of their parts.

"Andy," he says, hand stuttering against the counter like he finally has the words.

There are no revelations.

 

 

 

Coming out to his parents is something that Novak has never been able to think about, something he'll never consider, no matter what anyone says.

All of the Novaks have _this_ in common, if there is nothing else. There are many versions of himself, entangled in Novak's mind, and all of them know these two things: he is gay, his family will never find out.

It is a small sacrifice, compared to others that he has made. It is a small sacrifice and, even if it's one that he does not want to, he will still make it.

 

 

 

(That does not stop it from prickling at his gut for many hours in many days. It does not stop him from opening his mouth for a confession, once, twice, thirty times, only to say something, anything, else.

It does not stop him from falling, even when he does not want to, and not being able to get up.)

 

 

 

"You know that I know, right?" Maria tells him, blowing a strand of hair out of her face.

They're at a cafe in Monaco, warm despite the time of year, and Novak occupies his hands with a biscuit that he won't eat. He looks her in the eyes.

"Know what?" he says, going for light-hearted and missing by 20 meters; winces like he's shanked a forehand.

Maria stares at him in a way that suggests that she's humoring him. "Novak," she says, " _Andy_."

"Of course," he says, resigned to the fact that all of the women in his life somehow know more about his existence than he does.

"I'm surprised it took you this long to bring this up," he says, after a moment, "He told his feelings to me over a year ago."

"His feelings?" Maria says, like she's dumbstruck. "Novak," she says, and stops, looking unsure for nearly the first time since he's met her, years ago.

"Masha?" he asks.

"What about your feelings?" she says, like she's being kind; isn't.

 

 

 

The truth is that Novak knows exactly who he is and knows Andy too. The truth is that Novak's never felt love like he's felt this; that this little word ends up being entirely inadequate for the thing inside of his chest and lungs and throat – inside of his heart, if he could ever admit it.

Novak knows nothing, doesn't know himself, but he will know this; there are no revelations.

It claws up inside of his mouth like he can't stop it; Novak picks up the phone, texts Andy.

 

 

 

It's four words. It's not enough. It's all he's can say.

_I have not forgotten._

 

 

 

It's more complicated than that, of course, but something is more than Novak's done all along.

 

 

 

Andy texts him back as the plane lands in London: _haven't forgotten what???_

Novak wonders if he could get away with texting back " _You._ " but that's too cliche, even for him. He sends instead: _I will have to forfeit your dare, Andy. I am sorry._

He gets up from his seat, lifts his bag from the overhead compartment, deboards the plane, smiles because he's always been good at pretending, especially to himself.

 

 

 

(Andy doesn't text him again. The truth is Novak's never been less sorry.)

 

 

 

And there will never have been revelations, not for Novak; not about Andy.

And Novak's always known the answer, even when he's known nothing at all. And Novak could never be surprised by the two of them, even when love was on the line. And Novak may be scared, but he is also brave.

Andy's not the only one with courage; Novak's not the only one who's unsure. (They are, have always been, both. It does not need to be repeated to be true.)

 

 

 

Andy looks unraveled when he opens the door: hair mussed like he's run his hands through it for hours, jaw tight, unsmiling. Novak breathes in and then out, says, like it's easy, "Hi, Andy."

"What the _fuck_ , Nole," Andy says, tight and confused and no longer careful. His eyes are red and his entire body is tensed like he's running purely on adrenaline, like he hasn't slept since Novak texted (and he might not have).

Novak smiles at him, reckless, even though it shouldn't make him happy to see Andy like this. "You are going to let me in, yes?" he says, because he won't let himself run away, not this time.

He brushes past Andy as he crosses the threshold, lets his smile grow wider at Andy's stuttered breath, takes off his scarf and coat, hands steadier than they've been in months, as Andy watches him from behind.

"Tea?" Andy says, compulsive from a lifetime of having his mother ask the same question. Novak doesn't answer, turns around not knowing what he's going to say, only that he's going to say it.

"I am not a six-year-old, I cannot be provoked by dares," he says and steps forward.

He kisses Andy before either of them can think too long about it, presses into Andy's stutter-shocked hands coming up to hold his waist. He kisses Andy and knows there will never be a last time that he does.

"Looks like you can," Andy says after they've stopped to catch a breath, now smiling like he's seen the surface of the sun up close.

"I broke the dare," Novak points out, not that it matters.

"Novak," Andy says, like he knows, reaches back out to hold Novak close.

"I love you," Novak says, in case it wasn't obvious.

"Yeah," Andy says, "I know."

"Took you long enough, by the way," Andy says a good while later, just to make a point.

"Is there a reason we have stopped?" Novak says, gesturing between them and quirking an eyebrow, because he knows that he can.

"God, you're so pushy," Andy says, smiles anyway, listens.

 

 

 

"Since we were fifteen?" Novak says, tracing invisible words over Andy's arms, shoulders.

"You haven't?" Andy says, because he's always known how to beat Novak.

"Well," Novak says, not ready to concede, "I am the smart one. How come you have figured it out before me?"

"Idiot," Andy says, grins and kisses Novak silent because _he_ can.


End file.
